


A Study in Curses

by round_and_round



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-07-28 09:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_and_round/pseuds/round_and_round
Summary: A Potterlock AU based of a Tumblr post. John Watson (formerly Carrow) is a retired Auror returned home from a mission in Afghanistan. He then meets Sherlock, who is a muggle, and they begin consulting. As his old life chases him, John struggles to keep his new life safe.





	1. Much to Be Desired

**Author's Note:**

> Just the first little blurb I'm sorry it's so short I wanted to post what I was finished with. I will regularly update more since I have it! Probably a slow (sloooowww) burn. Likely lots of silly Harry Potter trivia to be thrown in. I hope you like it! Thanks :)

The Wizarding World left much to be desired. Outdated morals, idiotic leadership, children fighting wars, wounds, and failures. Among other things.

And so, John Carrow left. Packed up his office at the Ministry and, to make it official, changed his name. It was difficult to say goodbye. John’s fingers trailed lightly against the sported wallpaper of the home he lived in since birth. True the colors were muted, the cobwebs numerous, and the air perpetually smelling like a burnt potion but it was home and home is hard to leave.

The suitcase thudded down onto the front step. Taxis and pedestrians flashed by. John stood for a minute…then three…seven…eighteen… His mind wandered flashes of the desert heat, auror robes ascending in a line, dueling cries. No. He shook his head as if that could clear the memories. Now was the time to pull it together. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, he chided himself. It was the same old London he was just not the same old John. Here we go.

John Watson, former Auror, former member of one of the twenty-eight pure-blood families, was ready and from there he set off with a cursed shoulder and roughly thirty possessions to his name.

If only Mycroft would piss off. Sherlock indisputably did not need a companion, a goldfish, a protector or however Mycroft decided to phrase it. As Sherlock had said countless times before, the heroin was an infinitesimal problem. In fact, it wasn’t even a problem as far as he was concerned. It was merely something to cure boredom or to heighten a train of thought. What a movie or a good cappuccino might do for a regular person. It wasn’t addiction, as it only happened when the violin or a cigarette didn’t do the job. Besides, addiction was for normal people and normal people were stupid.

However, all of his obstinacy towards a flat mate changed when Mycroft cut him off. Suddenly the idea of “Baker Street: Population Sherlock Holmes,” became a lot less of a foreseeable scenario. Grudgingly, Sherlock began to search for someone to room with. Which, as he soon learned, was an increasingly difficult task.


	2. Enough to be Going on With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah they meet

It was an old classmate and friend that introduced them. Of course, John would have preferred to live alone- less chance for discovery- but he wasn’t exactly prepared to make a muggle income. The family funds weren’t his for the taking and eventually what had been given to him would dry out. (The muggles would never known if he simply copied more money but he was a man of morals.)

Mike Stamford was a muggle born wizard who, after graduating, took up a muggle job and lived a relatively normal life. (This lifestyle was becoming much more common as wizards were discovering that they could balance both the seemingly endless muggle amenities and magic usage. See _ A Wizard‘s Encyclopedia for Muggle Living _ for more history and information.) 

They met for coffee one afternoon and when John briefly mentioned the struggle for a flatmate, Mike perked up. Which is how John found himself in a St. Bart’s. John knew the building well due to a ministry entrance hidden in a second floor storage closet. They were on the fourth floor now across the lab from a man who was clearly muggle but looked shockingly wizard-like. If there was a stereotype for being magical, John thought, this must be it. Angular and lean with something subtly inhumane about him, John was instantly intrigued. His shoulder gave one of its usually flashes and he absentmindedly rubbed it. 

Cold eyes flashed his way for a mere second before: 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

“I’m sorry?” Had he heard this man correctly? Could he possibly know what was going on in the wizarding world? His shoulder tweaked again almost as if it was wondering itself.

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” The stranger was speaking slower now, annoyed and enunciating. John looks at Mike who shakes his head slightly. So he didn’t know. Then how did he know that John had been in- 

“Afghanistan. I’m sorry how did you-” 

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London- together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening. 7 o’clock” 

John is usually on top of things but he’s becoming more confused by the second. Mike has a smug look on his face. The man is gathering his belongings, unaware- or uncaring- of the affect he’s had. 

“We’ve just met and we’re going to go look at a flat? We don't know a thing about each other. Not your name. I don’t even know where we’re meeting!” He turns from the doorframe and steps close to John, arrogant and calculating. 

“I know you’re a soldier invalided home from Afghanistan. Wounded in action, your left shoulder to be exact. You’ve got no family here at least none you’ll speak to. London is not the city for an army pension man, but you won’t ask for help. Maybe you’re too proud for it or maybe they won’t help even if you were to ask. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” 

As he pivots away, John’s eyes slide closed. He swallows and tries to dam the pictures back. The dry wind that offered no ailment to the heat but rather eerily shifted the sand and dust around. Distant sounds of guns as muggles fought their cover war. This- _ this _was the real war. This is where great wizards died. Where good men fell. The sky filled with explosions and bursts of light- red, purple, gold, teal, and fated green. Bodies writhed on the ground from the first. Wands turned against their owners will from the second. And those who fell at the third, who never stood a chance. Unforgivable, John understood it then. But that didn’t stop anything. Both sides fired them constantly. It seems that during a war, in the heat of a battle, laws stop no one. He remembers the white coming towards him and then the pain. Bleeding into that barren dirt.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.” John is jerked back to reality. Less than a second has passed but somehow he’s come crumbling down again. After bidding Mike goodbye, he heads back to his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always so nervous about posting hahah. I do most of my writing at 1 am so honestly I never know how it's going to turn out.


	3. A Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi so like. this might be written really awkwardly but i had this plan and then i thought maybe it didn’t work and fixing it- well. i just hope it doesn’t suck :/ 
> 
> i struggle writing from sherlock’s pov that’s why his are so short sorry !

The ‘science of deduction,’ John scoffs to himself as he reads the truly obnoxious website. He briefly scans the 243 types of tobacco ash and reads up on the clear signs written on an airline pilot’s thumb. John’s interest has piqued. Flatmate or not, he wants to know more about this man.

“A gift for you, little brother.” The magazine flutters down onto Sherlock’s lap. A two page spread of a shirtless man in army pants stares seductively up at him. He looks up at Mycroft with as much disdain as he can manage.

“What’s this, Mycroft?”

“Like I said, a gift,” he smirks and taps the glossy paper with his umbrella. “Remind you of anyone?”

“Why must you meddle with every aspect of my life.” Sherlock flicks the magazine to the ground.

“You know exactly why.” Sherlock opens his mouth to retaliate but nothing he can say will change the fact that Mycroft doesn’t trust him. “Perhaps I’ll pay a visit to this John Watson. Military man, discharged from Afghanistan. Wounded left shoulder.”

“I already know all this Mycroft, why are you boring me with again?”

“Oh Sherlock if only you knew. John Watson is not who you think he is. With my experience, we would be better suited to room together. However I hate people and the fact that he’s just like me, well, that makes him perfect for you. Enjoy the gift, Sherlock.” And with that he leaves, swinging that horrid umbrella all the while.

The knocker falls crooked after John uses it. He’s still not entirely sure why he’s here but before he can leave, an elderly woman dressed all in purple answers the door.

“Ah! You must be John Carrow. Lovely to meet you dear. Sherlock is upstairs. I’m Ms. Hudson the landlady.” She grins and beckons him in.

“I’m sorry?” John doesn’t move from the doorstep, “What did you call me?”

“Oh, oh right. Watson, that’s what Sherlock said it was. Sorry dear, I am just so used to the name. I was one you know.” She winks and turns towards the stairs to call up for Sherlock. John is frozen where he stands. “Don’t act so surprised, John. You’ll understand when you meet Mycroft. Now come on. We can chat later.”

John is half convinced this is some fever dream and he never really left St. Mungo’s. But he goes upstairs despite it all.

Sherlock is sitting in a black armchair texting when John walks in. They exchange greetings. The flat is nice; homey, warm, and a complete mess.

“This is very nice. Very nice indeed. Except for all this rubbish.” Sherlock’s eyes snap up and he flushes.

“Well I suppose I could tidy up a little.” He shuffles a few papers and stabs something into the mantle. John’s brow furrows and then he noticed the skull.

“Er. Mr. Holmes, what is that?”

Sherlock smiles at the skull for a moment.“Friend of mine. And please, it’s Sherlock.”

Ms. Hudson walks back in carrying a muggle newspaper out in front of her and the latest copy of the Daily Prophet tucked under her arm.

“What do you make of these suicides, Sherlock?” John makes some sort of choked noise and reacts. With his half his wand in his hand, he debates ripping the newspaper away or hitting Sherlock with an Obliviate. But when she hands Sherlock the muggle paper and opens up the prophet, he doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. Ms. Hudson glances at John with a knowing look and he tucks his wand back up his sleeve.


	4. I Know We Just Met But...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy god i just realized i’ve been freaking out about indents on my paragraphs and i was reading a couple other fics and THEY DONT HAVE INDENTS im so stupids and filled with regret. if there’s no indent know i got my crap together and changed it. i’m sorry

_How are you going to get yourself out of this one, John? _As much as he hates to admit it, Sherlock was right about wanting to see more trouble. Yes there have been terrible things but none outweigh the nobility to die for one’s country. None outweigh the thrill of it all. John thinks about this as he arrives at a crime scene. The one he was dragged to after being picked apart once again by Sherlock. (Nevermind he’s wrong about who John really is. Emotions are emotions whether you be muggle or wizard.) In the end, no matter how you look at it, it’s quite a weird scenario. He barely knows this man and now he’s… solving crimes with him? Maybe it would have been better to just take that desk job at the Ministry. Then he sees the body.

The lady lays on the floor wearing an alarming shade of pink. John shudders as he realizes he’s seen her face before around the Ministry. Sherlock and some Detective Inspector named Lestrade are talking about suicide, about poison, but John knows better than that. Muggles are too easy to trick. Although, John supposes, ripping one’s soul from their body doesn’t leave any clear signs.

Distantly he picks up that this is the fourth death of its kind and dread fills his stomach. _ I thought I escaped this, _echoes in his head. It would appear the war has followed him.

“So, John. What do you think?” Sherlock doesn’t look up from his phone and John struggles to look away from the pink lady.

“I’m sorry?”

Still typing furiously, Sherlock rolls his eyes. “About the woman?”

What is he supposed to say?_ ‘Sherlock I know we just met but I’m really a wizard of relative importance- well I used to be- and there’s wizards everywhere. In fact, that war in Afghanistan is really a wizard war and this woman was killed actually by a curse. The killing curse. It’s one of the unforgivable and illegal. So don’t ever use one. Not like you would be able-’ _

“John?” The two other men are staring at him, waiting for a response.

“Uh.. Well,” John drifts closer to the woman, “she’s dead.” Sherlock scoffs and rattles off about Carrow and media and a string of lovers. It’s all wrong of course, but John has to admit that it’s a brilliant deduction and Sherlock’s mind is fantastic. However, he hasn’t accounted for the woman’s ability to apparate from anywhere, but then again, how could he?

“Her case where is her case? Did she eat it?” John and the D.I. stand outside the room looking down several flights of stairs at Sherlock who, it seems, has just had a revelation. He dashes out the door yelling about serial killers.

“Is he coming back then?”

“Oh doubt it. So you’re his…” The man trails off and smiles carefully at John.

“Flatmate. Or potential flatmate. Sorta got swept up in this and I’m not sure how.”

“Ah, makes sense. He doesn’t make friends easily but you seem like a good man. I think he needs someone like you. Keep him from going too crazy.” _ You have no idea what crazy is, Detective _“Well anyway,” Lestrade claps John on the back, “hope to see you around. Maybe in a different setting.” He chuckles and heads back into the room, leaving John at the banister. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i try so hard not to make this awkward as hecc. i should also start actually checking my work for errors but eh


	5. The Second Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip sorry its been like a month oops.

London’s nightlife swirls around John as he walks with no specific destination in mind. He could go to 221B but it is likely empty and what will he do then? Not that he needs Sherlock to function, of course not, but it’s nice to have a distraction. He’s so lost in thought that he slams into someone. After apologizing, he looks down to find that whoever that was had dropped their wallet. 

“Hey! You uh-” And before John can finish, the tips of his fingers graze the leather. Reality twists.  _ Dammit, dammit, dammit.  _ The feeling of being squeezed through space is nauseating but John has been through it a thousand times. Before his feet are even on solid ground, his wand is out and ready. A figure stands before him. A man wearing a suit and leaning on an...umbrella? 

“Who are you?” John’s voice shakes more than he’d like and echoes throughout the empty room. 

“John Watson. So quick to act. Quick to abandon such a prestigious name, quick to make friends, quick to move in. Although I suppose that’s the auror in you, isn’t it?” 

“Who. Are. You?” John’s voice wavers again but for an entirely different reason. Instincts have returned (but it’s rather safe to assume they never left) and John is seething. This is the man the battlefield knew. The familiar tremble starts up in John’s hand and he smiles. He’s been told it’s terrifying to witness. The smile from a soldier who knows a hundred ways to kill you. Ways that extend beyond spells. John was trained as nothing more than an auror, but anyone who encountered him in that barren land at the losing end of that wand, knew better. 

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” The raised wand flies out of John’s hand straight into the stranger’s who twists it nimbly between his fingers. If John is shocked- and he is- it doesn’t show. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve made acquaintances with a certain relative of mine.” The man’s face curves into an equally chill inducing smile. 

“What? Sherlock? I’ve barely had a full conversation.” John shouldn’t be saying anything. He should be the stoic soldier. Unbreakable. 

“Yet you already mean something to him. I can’t fathom why but then again, Sherlock has always been theatrical. Nevertheless, I have a proposition for you.” John remains silent and the man chuckles, sounding more like he’s scoffing. “I can’t imagine you have much left in the way of funds. I would be happy to compensate you generously in exchange for information. You see, very few are close to him.” John stiffens his back, he may be a lot of undesirable things but he is not a traitor. Not even to someone he barely knows, someone who could just as easily betray him. 

“No. Now if you don’t mind, I have places to be. Thanks anyway.” With a muttered Accio, John’s faithful wand is back in his hand. He turns swiftly on his heel and-with a quick churn through reality itself- is once again in the hall downstairs of 221B. 

  
  



End file.
